


Don't Dick The Tailpipe

by cherry3point14



Category: Supernatural
Genre: But then like a little fluff at the end, Car Crack, Crack, Don't get yo hopes up, F/M, He doesn't actually have sex with the car but I think in his mind he comes pretty close, I am a trash human, It's cute trust me, It's fucking crack, Jealous Girlfriend, Jealousy, Sams only in this for a second, So Wrong It's Right, The other woman is a fucking Impala, some bad words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 03:32:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15721104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherry3point14/pseuds/cherry3point14
Summary: Written from the below prompt (by the brilliant @kickingitwithkirk on Tumblr):How about Dean x Reader, who becomes jealous of his obsession with his car Baby?(Yes, that's all it takes for sordid crack like this to exist)





	Don't Dick The Tailpipe

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as part of my follower celebration over on Tumblr. A bunch of my cuties gave me prompts and I wrote the fuck out of them.

Dean had that look about him. You knew it before you got anywhere close to falling for him, the first time you saw him actually. He was a car guy. Anyone that came within, oh say, thirty feet of the idiot knew that. Unless they too were an idiot.

You still remembered the first night. In all the gin joints in all the world and all that crap. Car guys have a way about them. This indescribable aura of bullshit. 

It’s a car for crying out loud. It gets you from A to B and sometimes to H, for hunt.

He’d taken you outside that night and actually stood back with a proud little smirk when he’d shown you Baby. Stood there waiting for you to throw a compliment her way before he’d let you get in. At that point you’d blamed it on the alcohol, he was just being weird maybe but in reality, it was your own fault. You’d just ignored the car guy vibe because you were drunk and horny and next thing you know it’s too late.

Suddenly you’re in love with the king of the fucking car freaks.

You could appreciate that Baby was beautiful of course. Which, by the way, you hated calling her Baby, it was like tacit compliance with the whole idea of naming a car, but as long as you didn’t actually say it in front of Dean you were usually fine.

But yeah, she’s gorgeous. A work of art. Because how could she not be pristine with the sheer amount of time he spends working on her?

Sometimes you think it’s more time than he spends working on you.

Other times you actually compare, and it _is_ more time than he spends working on you.

That’s when you whine because you’re not so secretly a giant baby and tell him he loves his car more. He’ll normally wrap you up and tell you it’s impossible, but he always fails to hide just the way his voice goes just a little higher at the end.

He thinks he’s so slick.

You’d assume someone in a relationship with a man as handsome as Dean Winchester might get jealous when a woman hits on him in a bar. Or, in your line of work, whenever a witch grabs his butt since it happens more often than you think. But bar floozies and witches you could deal with. One responded well to the mere threat of violence and the other one you could kill.

It’s just his dumb car you can't compete with.

One time he even tried to convince you that you were the crazy one. He’d told you that you didn’t understand the bond between a man and his car. He’d called you, the term still makes you shudder to this day, a car slut. Because before him you’d sold your car every few years and bought a newer model. You pointed out that you simply treated cars like what they were. Inanimate objects.

Maybe it’s a testament to how much you love him that you’re getting jealous over it. The way he calls her Baby with that low kick to his voice. Although it's not really 'Baby' that grinds your gears, it's when he calls her his girl. You're fairly sure that's your job.

Then there’s the way he strokes her sometimes. Granted you've seen Sam raise an eyebrow at that too, so it’s not just you that notices. It’s apparently a well-known fact that Dean is a goddam car weirdo. Except Sam doesn’t say anything so you’re still left as the one dealing with this situation.

And deal with it you shall.

You can’t go on like it anymore, but, as Dean casually throws into conversation far more than he needs to, she’s a classic. 1967. Don’t make ‘em like that anymore.

You weren’t made in 1967 and you had a sneaking suspicion that if you threw down an ultimatum, not that you were the type to, it would be a case of age before beauty.

Oh god. He thinks she’s more beautiful as well, doesn’t he?

For all your feelings about the car, you’re not going to say that you hate riding in it. The back seat is like a made-for-you bed. You can at least agree that they don’t make them like _that_ anymore. Most backseats these days are too narrow and not long enough but in the back of the Impala you could comfortably get a solid six hours and you had done before. Plus the extra space back there is pretty handy for occasional car sex. The fact is you’ve had the best sex of your life in the back of the Impala. Wait. Fuck, he was thinking about her, wasn’t he?

No. You can't say that you hate the car, not really. The car is just the symptom and Dean's obsession is the disease.  

He pretends he doesn’t do ‘relationships’ and you’re ‘special’ but maybe the reality is that you’re the only one who’s ever put up with his car crap for this long. You’re the only woman who would stick around to be second best to four wheels.

It's not like you mean to start a vendetta against the Impala. The first time you damage her is totally not your fault.

You’d been lying in the back, sleeping actually, and unusually you’d had a nightmare. Having a nightmare itself wasn’t unusual but it’s just normally you save them for the private dignity of the bedroom. It had been a bad hunt that day though, both you and Sam had almost bit the big one within minutes of each other and honestly? You’re not sure what scared you more. Your own imminent death or the thought of Sam’s lustrous hair no longer being among the living. One day you’d have to bring up him donating it to science.

Either way, you’re in the back and this nightmare kicks in. You don’t remember much about it except for blood. You’re drenched in it. Warm and sticky, in the gaps of your fingers and stuck between your toes. Although while awake you can’t remember whose blood it was you’d be willing to harbor a guess based on how upset you’d been.

Sam had to lean over from the front seat to wake you because apparently, you’d been thrashing about, whimpering pathetically, the whole nine yards. The only thing is you’re kind of clawing in your sleep and you need to cut your nails but you haven’t had a chance. So, when you sit up there are these scratches in the leather. Raised, bumpy lines that look like an animal has been back there or, you know, the desperate attempts of a woman gone mad to tear up the leather seats in her boyfriend’s car.

Of course, he spots it straight away. He’s like a bloodhound for even the most minor of damage to his precious. He’s all frustrated as he looks out the corner of his eye, but you’d been having a nightmare, so he cannot possibly blame you. Doesn’t stop the muttered, “for fuck sake,” as he turns back to the road.

The second time you damage Baby it’s maybe fifty-fifty your fault. Dean shouldn’t have parked her in the street. He normally doesn’t. He’s obsessive about parking in the garage. When you’re out on hunts and you tease him about not having a garage to keep her in he does this pathetic sigh and mutters, “I know.”

But on this one occasion, he’d had parked her in the street for whatever reason and you had just so happened to be learning to rollerblade. Which of itself sounds like an after-school special plot where everyone learns a lesson at the end of the episode but no. Really. You were just genuinely learning to rollerblade.

All three of you had decided a few months ago to do some bucket list thing since you occasionally had time on your hands. You know, rather than nerding out over lore (Sam) or watching Netflix and eating (guess who).

Dean’s list had begun life as purely sex stuff and then he’d managed to slip some non-erotica based things he wanted to on the bottom. Sam’s list had been surprisingly short, which made you sad at first but his choices were all family friendly at least. Places to go and great things to see.

Yours was dumb but it was your little slice of dumb and it was no-one’s place to judge. You wanted to go bungee jumping because you don’t nearly die enough in your everyday life. You wanted to fly like a bird, method as yet to be determined. And somewhere near the bottom was learning to rollerblade. It all harked back to a traumatic experience growing. A rollerblading birthday party and you not knowing how. Kids can be cruel, and you could be clumsy.

So yeah, it was like fifty-fifty blame. Yes, you crashed into her, but she shouldn’t have been there in the first place.

You couldn’t even sneak away and pretend it wasn’t you because you’d shouted “SHIT,” mid crash as if the word might somehow slow you down before it happened. They’d both come running obviously. Sam laughs while you’re scrambling off of the hood because he told you this wasn’t a good idea and you hit your head pretty good on the windscreen so you don't fight back. But Dean? Dean is aghast. He’s looking at the dent’s where you’ve balanced your weight on your knees to get up with sheer horror. Not to mention the scrapes in the paint from the impact itself.

“What the hell Y/N?”

He’s not even glanced at you so he hasn’t seen your grazed forearms, knees or other superficial injuries.

Posturing as your cuts and bruises might be you are a freaking human being that actually feels pain unlike his dumb car that he’ll fix and it’ll never know the difference. Because it doesn’t have _emotions_.

“No concern for me then?”

He finally peers at you and is smart enough to realize that if he ever wants to have sex again he should change his focus.

“’m sorry. Just panicked is all. You ok sweetheart?”

That tricky bastard kisses you all sweetly and does that thing where he barely touches your injuries but somehow still soothes them and everything melts. You wrap your arms around his neck and let him hold you, not even noticing when he angles the hug so that he’s looking at Baby over your shoulder.

None of that damage had been intentional. Not really. But everyone has a breaking point.

There’s always the straw that broke the camel’s back. The final nail in the coffin. Probably some other idioms. The point is you make it to the fabled promised land of crazy jealous girlfriend.

It’s not the extra time he spent fixing her up. It certainly didn’t help but that’s not what finally set you off.

The reason so goddamn innocuous that it shouldn’t even bother you. It’s the shorts.

You’re looking for Dean because you’re actually a very thoughtful and loving girlfriend. You know he’ll be hungry soon and since you’re making yourself something to eat you want to offer to make him something.

Wandering through the bunker is pointless, you know where he will be. The garage. You already know his schedule and that he’s washing Baby. What you don’t expect to see as you walk into the room is that ass.

Dean has got a body that just won’t quit. It’s safe to say that’s established information at this point. You can’t let him know too much, it’ll go to his head, but you’ve made it very clear in the past. And right now he’s standing there in these jean cutoffs that make your mouth water. Loose ends of denim dangle precariously over his firm thighs, those bowlegs of his stand staunch and damn, if you’ve said it once you’ll say it a thousand times. _That ass_.

You clearly appreciate the shorts. You’d even go as far as to say that you love the shorts. You wouldn’t mind them becoming a regular part of his wardrobe. It’s like seeing him walk around in his boxers but somehow even hotter because it’s _Dean_ and those are _denim short shots_.

The shorts themselves aren't the problem. It's the fact that he’s not wearing those for you, he’s wearing them for his fucking car.

Benefit of the doubt, you try to remind yourself. Give him one last chance to prove himself. He hasn’t heard you yet so you slip up behind him and wrap your hands around his waist grinding against him while he works.

“Came to ask you if you wanted something to eat but then I saw you in these.”

You think you make your intentions pretty clear.

He doesn’t, or at least he doesn’t stop his sudsy sponge on the glass if he does catch your meaning, “mmm sounds good, let me finish this up.”

You huff and skulk off to the kitchen with one thought on your mind. Game on Dean Winchester.

But you can’t attack immediately. That’s too obvious. Doing something crazy like sabotaging the food you make for him? Too quick. You need to bide your time and wait to strike. And actually, plan out what you’re going to do. 

You kind of fumble over making a plan if you’re honest. Planning how to take out a monster or even a big bad is small fry in comparison. How can you punish Dean without him either a) stop loving you or b) knowing it was you in the first place? Obviously, B would be the preferable option.

Luckily life sometimes hands out more than lemons. She gives opportunities too.

You’re on a supply run, just you and him. He’s driving with an arm slung over your shoulder and you have your head resting on his chest because you’re both a couple of saps when you want to be. He’s singing lowly to himself and every so often you sing a line together.

When he pulls up at the market you slide out of the driver’s side with him because you’re just _so_ sickeningly in love.

It’s busy inside, noisy since you’ve come from the relative quiet for the bunker. A mother chastising her kid somewhere in the distance. Some guy who’s walking around whistling while he browses. The normal murmur you’d expect. And then Sam calls and Dean is even more distracted. That’s probably why he doesn’t hear the keys fall out of his pocket.

They’re sitting there glinting at you on the shiny linoleum floor, just begging to be picked up.

Of course, it makes no sense to do anything to them. He’s your ride home.

And yet, your hands dart out to grab them before he can look around. He does that when he’s on the phone sometimes, looks over his shoulder at you to make sure you’re still there. One of those little protective Dean things. But you manage, the keys are hidden in your balled-up fist and out of sight when he glances over.

You mouth that you’ll be right back, and he nods while his brother continues to talk in his ear.

Sam is getting a pretty good Christmas present this year for his assistance, intended or not.

It becomes very apparent that you need to ditch the keys as soon as possible. He can’t find them on your person because then you’re done for but if you’re going to stash them somewhere it has to be somewhere he’d never look for groceries. And somewhere you’d never be. Let’s be honest in the freezer next to the ice cream might as well be a sign that reads, ‘Y/N did it.’

Vegetables? No, too obvious that someone who knows Dean hid them there. Cereal won’t work either because you know he’s going to stop and pick up a box of frosted something intended for kids.

Then you see it. A single row of energy drinks on the bottom shelf of a random aisle. It’s the perfect place. Dean prefers his caffeine dark with an aftertaste of bitter. It’s like the opposite of everything else he eats. You at least have the decency to load your coffee up with sugar and cream. Neither of you drinks caffeine out of a can.

He could have totally dropped the keys here on his way through. It’s the fastest route to the pies for crying out loud.

The throw is poetry in motion. You’re casual, cool, not even looking at your arm as it swings the keys in the direction of the cans. You obviously missed out on a moderately successful career as a thrower, that’s a thing, right? Sports and stuff.

You can’t see where they’ve landed between two cans which means your work is done and you wander off to find Dean with a swagger in your step. He’s putting his phone away and when he sees you he leans in for a quick kiss, “Sammy wants us to pick up some spinach, should I be worried?”

“Probably. I caught him looking at a ton of recipes last week.”

His face wrinkles in an attempt to be sour but he looks cute instead. It only makes you press your lips to him again with a reassurance, “just grab some junk it’ll all even out.”

You take a few steps in front of him when he asks, “what were you looking at?”

Crap. You forgot that your basket was empty. Your entire alibi folds before your eyes like a house of cards. Goodbye cruel world.

A nervous chuckle comes out to try and save yourself, “what?”

That’ll buy you all of two seconds.

“While Sammy was chewing my ear off? Where’d you go?”

You’ve been with Dean long enough, hunted with him long enough, that you can hear the trace of suspicion in his voice. It’s now or never. If there was ever a time for your brain to earn its keep then it’s right now.

“I was looking for that soup I like but they’re all out.”

Smooth, real smooth. It’s the middle of summer and you’ve not eaten soup for months but maybe that will make the lie all the more believable.

It takes a short lifetime but he finally shrugs, bored of the inquiry, and proceeds to drag you around picking up things that definitely weren’t on the list. You allow him his aimless shopping because holy hell that was close, although if you thought it through you’d realize not arguing with him over his food choices is the first clue that something is up.

Finally, you’re standing by the trunk with two big brown paper bags in your arms, and Dean has another when it happens. The ol’ tap and touch. He frowns when he doesn’t hear the jingle in his pocket and it only intensifies when he shoves his hand in and finds nothing but his phone.

“Hurry up, these are heavy!” you pout, playing your part. It helps that the bags are actually heavy enough to make you genuinely forget what you did.

It takes a substantial effort to keep a straight face when you do remember.

“Where are my keys?” He grinds out like you’re going to say you have them.

Here comes the clincher, high school drama to the rescue, “seriously Dean? You lost your keys? You’re joking right?”

You deliver it with just the right amount of exasperation to be real.

“No, I didn’t lose them, I just- they must have fallen out or….” His voice turns somber and threatening. “Or been stolen.”

Well, shit. Mark you down as scared and horny.

Shaking your head, you put the bags in your arms on top of the closed trunk and tut. “Just stay there, I’ll go check inside to see where your dumbass dropped them and you look around out here.”

You don’t wait for a response before you run back into the store feeling like the cat that got the cream. His panic was delicious, the proverbial meal you had been waiting to snack on. You'd got through the whole trip without him finding them and now all you had to do was retrieve them and be the hero. You take a few laps at first because it’ll be too obvious if you came back straight away but as you backtrack to the aisle where you left them your stomach sinks at the sight of the drink cans not quite in the same uniform line they had been. Now it’s your turn to panic.

Searching the cans does nothing because the keys aren’t there. You run and skid into a cashier, begging as best you can, “do you have like a lost and found or something? My boyfriend lost his... well, I mean I lost the car keys and they were here and he’s going to murder me.”

She seems about as uninterested as a person could be. She checks though, a cursory glance under her little desk, as slow as she can before her lips stretch into a thin, false smile. “Sorry, nothing here.”

“Fuck.”

When you run outside the bag Dean had been holding is with yours and he’s quiet yelling into the phone, “she’s checking inside now. No, I didn’t lose them, as if I would lose them. I just don’t have them.”

He clocks you and raises his eyebrows. Your face couldn’t show more genuine regret and sorrow than it does when you shake your head offering a silent apology.

His eyes dart about and then without fanfare, he brings his elbow down against the driver’s side window. Glass shatters over the seat and the sound makes your back tense.

This has gone way further than you thought and suddenly you’re filled with a heavy guilt that weighs you down. You’ll have to buy him a new window or something. You’ll have to do numbers one through sixteen on his sexy bucket list. Even then you’re not sure if it’ll be enough.

He barks at you to get in but as you do, practically shivering, he slaps a hand against his head as if he’s forgotten something.

One of his fingers springs towards you from nowhere, keys dangling perfectly from it, “almost forgot the bags, mind loading ‘em up?”

Waves of relief hit you, your face is red and flustered from the emotional rollercoaster you’ve experienced in the last few minutes and all of it is articulated in your flared nostrils and the way you roar, “YOU BASTARD.”

He bursts out laughing as you punch his shoulder with all of your strength, he’s unflinchingly still laughing when it hits you, “but your window?”

“She can take a hit but the effort you went to mess with me? Needed to teach you a lesson sweetheart.”

You snatch the keys away and swing your door open, turning back for only a second before you get out, “what’s the lesson? I mean besides, never prank a Winchester?”

He shrugs like it should be obvious, flashing you a wink when he finally reveals the truth, “love you as much as I love this car."

You’re not going to cry because it’s the damn most romantic thing anyone has ever said to you. Some dust just gets in your eye while you’re loading the trunk.


End file.
